


The Raptor House

by RedShiloh



Category: The Hobbit RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Infidelity, M/M, Mild Blood, dual timelines, minor injury
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-04
Updated: 2014-01-28
Packaged: 2017-12-17 17:27:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/870100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedShiloh/pseuds/RedShiloh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean and Aidan buy a rundown cottage in rural Scotland with plans of renovating it. While there, they find a curious journal belonging to a Mr. R. C. Armitage, a reclusive wildlife author. The journal details the last few months of Armitage’s life in the cottage some twenty years ago. As they learn more of the author’s private life, they discover strange parallels between their own. Just what is the mystery behind the reclusive author’s death? And what can that, and his life, mean to Dean and Aidan?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. We could get a house and some boxes on the lawn

**Author's Note:**

> lyrics at the beginning of chapters and the chapter titles are from 'The Animals Were Gone' by Damien Rice which is p. much the anthem of this fic.

_Oh I know that I left you in places of despair_  
Oh I know that I love you, so please throw down your hair  
At night I trip without you, and hope I don't wake up  
'Cause waking up without you is like drinking from an empty cup

* * *

 

_From the field notes of R. C. Armitage. February 9 th 1989_

_I arrived at the cottage a little after six in the evening. An hour later than I had planned but unfortunately I found myself stuck behind a tractor for the last few miles of the journey. I think it’s muck spreading season because now my vauxhall is fairly caked with manure which will be a nuisance to clean._

_There was a welcome party waiting for me. I feel horribly rude but I can’t remember any of their names it was so late and I was so tired and the sky was already dark, but they brought me a basket of Fatty Cutties which I believe is just another name for a Singing Hinny. They helped me move my belongings into the cottage which was very kind of them indeed, quite a welcoming party._

_The next morning when I went for my walk, I caught sight of a peregrine falcon, identifiable by the barring of its underside and the rounded fanning of its tail feathers. From the size I would say it were female, of breeding age, perhaps she is nesting nearby. Already I feel like this move was the best decision I could have made, I had grown so tired of the crowds and misery of the city. I believe I am going to like it here very much._

* * *

 

“Well, this is it.”

They sit in Aidan’s van, the engine running and the wipers on the lowest setting, sweeping lethargically at the rain.

They’re here. After dragging themselves from a warm bed and into a frigid van loaded with the remnants of their old life. After driving down endless country roads and through so many tiny towns, they’re finally here.

Dean sinks lower in his seat, pulling his coat tighter around himself and Aidan drums his fingers on the steering wheel.

The stone cottage stands before them; grey stone against a grey cloud backdrop enveloped in grey drizzle. Grey on grey on grey.

Aidan switches the engine off and the van falls into silence broken only by the tap tap tap of the rain on the windscreen.

Aidan palms the keys. He fiddles with his keychain; a tacky little four leaf clover set in resin and he looks at Dean with a sigh.

“Suppose we should be going in, then.”

Without looking at him, Dean nods.

* * *

 

The cottage is dark, blankets draped over all the windows, blocking out the natural light. Aidan gropes blindly by the front door until he finds the light switch. Somewhere in the bowels of the cottage, a generator groans to life. After a long moment of electric humming, the bare light bulb flickers on and the entrance hall is bathed in stark, yellow light.

“At least the electricity works,” Aidan says with forced cheer.

Dust tarps cover everything, dingy and grey. There are cobwebs everywhere, a complex netting of age old webbing that even the spiders have long since abandoned. The place smells musty and damp, the air stale and unused to human lungs.

Aidan slaps a hand on a nearby tarp, sneezing when a cloud of dust billows up.

“Well it’s a project of love, I’ll tell you that,” Aidan jokes as he sets the case he’s carrying against the wall. Dean barely reacts. He drifts into the entrance hall and stops by a sheet covering something tall and thin. He pulls it down to reveal a broken grandfather clock, the face is cracked with springs and gears peeking out like spilled guts, the pendulum hangs in the glass cabinet, still as death.

Dean turns back to Aidan. “Your asthma’s going to go mad,” he says.

“It’ll be fine.” Aidan shrugs it off, even though he can already feel the tight wheeze beginning to settle on his chest.

* * *

 

They eat their dinner sitting crossed legged on the living room floor with an upturned box for a table. They haven’t unpacked any dishes or cutlery yet and neither is particularly enthusiastic about doing the washing up, so they eat chips straight from a foil covered baking tray and tuna sandwiches bought from a petrol station.

They sit in silence. Aidan’s half lying back, propped up on his elbows as he picks idly at the crust of his sandwich, rolling the crumbs between his fingers. Dean’s staring contemplatively at the chimney flute, apparently miles away as he reaches for another chip.

“I don’t think we need to do anything to the walls,” Dean says suddenly, voice loud in the quiet. “The stonework looks good.”

Aidan takes a moment, swallowing his mouthful. “If you want.”

“Well what do you want?” Dean glances at him irritably.

“The stone looks good,” Aidan says, and then because he feels he needs to say something more to satisfy Dean, he adds, “The beams look great too.”

Dean looks up at the dark wood beams that run the length of the ceiling. He nods.

“Most people pay a bomb to get that old farmhouse look, we’d be daft to do anything to it.”

“We would,” Dean agrees. He lies back on the ground, sighing and crossing his arms behind his head.

“We’re living the good life here, Deano. We could get some chickens. Have fresh eggs every day.” Aidan mirrors Dean so they’re lying parallel to each other with the cardboard box between them. He looks across at Dean. “It’s going to be good, I can tell.”

Dean hums but says nothing. Aidan can see his eyes moving as he traces the wooden beams overhead. Gradually, Dean’s eyes slide closed.

* * *

 

That night, when they go to bed, Aidan tries not to think too hard about the fact that this will be the first time he’s shared a bed with Dean in months.

Dean seems equally as anxious as Aidan is about the whole thing and he steps into the bedroom after washing up looking uncharacteristically snug in pyjama bottoms and a threadbare t-shirt. Aidan’s used to Dean falling into bed in nothing but his boxer briefs, if even that. He supposes there’s a lot of change he still needs to get used to. Aidan has no pyjamas of his own but he slips on a sleeveless shirt to honour the unspoken agreement of discretion and slides under the covers.

They lie there side by side for a long moment. Dean is poker straight beside him, arms wedged by his sides and staring straight up at the ceiling.

“Are you sure this is ok?” Aidan asks, although he’s not entirely sure where he can sleep if Dean isn’t ok. The moth eaten couch downstairs looked wholly uninviting.

“It’s fine,” Dean says, voice slightly strained. He swallows audibly. “It’s weird I guess, but it’s why we came here, isn’t it?”

“Do you want to talk?” Aidan broaches but Dean cuts him off with a firm shake of his head.

“No,” he says almost angrily. “I really don’t.”

“Ok.”

Dean swallows again, he rolls over with his back to Aidan and he turns off the bedside light. The room falls into darkness. “Goodnight,” Dean says stiffly.

“Night,” Aidan answers. “I love you.”

Dean stays silent.

* * *

 

 “Dean… fuck. Dean? A little help?” Aidan’s braced on the stairs, two boxes wedged between the wall and his left thigh. Two books have already slid from the top most one and clattered down the stairs in a mess of loose pages and dust jackets. If he moves a muscle the entire lot is going to go.

Dean appears from the living room with a frown. When he sees Aidan his mouth twists in the smallest hints of a smile.

“Are you serious?” he says as he jogs up the stairs and rescues the top box.

“Lazy man’s load.” Aidan shrugs. He hefts the now manageable armful higher on his hip and climbs the stairs with Dean close behind him. He turns into the bedroom and deposits the box on the desk.

Dean drops his own box beside Aidan’s. He lingers there, his fingers trailing over the spines of the books and the binders inside. It’s one of Aidan’s boxes from his old study. Dean’s fingers brush over the edge a green binder, tracing the lettering of Aidan’s illegible scrawl.

“I didn’t realise you’d kept them all,” Dean says quietly.

“It wasn’t intentional.” Aidan takes the binder. He cracks it open, glancing through the pages within, then he snaps it closed and sets it aside. “I just threw everything in the boxes, didn’t really sort through things.” He shrugs and forces a laugh. “Probably should’ve done hey?”

Dean doesn’t laugh; he looks at Aidan, his expression weary. “How much do you miss it?”

“Not much,” Aidan says. “Honestly, I’d rather be here with you.” He stretches and pushes the flaps on the box down so they cover the contents. “Tea break?” he suggests and it isn’t entirely because he wants to move them away from the box and the memories within.

“I’ll put the kettle on.” Dean says.

* * *

 

On the second morning, Aidan wakes up early enough that dawn is still breaking. Dean is fast asleep beside him, curled away from him and so buried under a nest of blankets that Aidan can only just make out a mess of yellow hair poking out.

Climbing quietly out of bed, Aidan shrugs on a heavy dressing gown and pads his way into the bathroom. Everything is lit by the grey light of dawn making it look cold, like the tiles are coated in a thin layer of ice. When Aidan’s bare foot touches bare tile, he thinks maybe they are coated in ice after all. Shivering, he tiptoes his way to the safety of the bathroom mat.

The old pipes groan and shudder when he turns the tap on. He’s going to have to look into getting them fixed up, it’s a wonder that they haven’t warped and burst with the frost and the years of neglect.

Reaching for his toothbrush, the red one that sits next to Dean’s orange, Aidan gazes out the window to the empty fields that stretch on beyond their cottage.

And then he freezes.

Out in the very far field, right by the border of trees, he swears that he can see a flash of colour. Someone is out there watching the house. Aidan squints and leans closer to the glass to get a better view, but whoever it is; they’re too far away to see properly.

Their closest neighbour is at least a mile away and they’re not on any public footpath route, he has no idea why anyone would even be out there.

Aidan thinks briefly about waking Dean and getting him to have a look, but honestly, what can Dean do about it? It’s not even like the figure is doing anything, they’re just standing and watching. Perhaps he should get himself dressed and try and chase them down. But what if they’re dangerous? Maybe he’s best not engaging them.

Gradually, the figure turns away from the house and walks into the trees.

Aidan watches the spot where they had been standing for a long while, toothbrush dangling forgotten in his grasp. A small chill runs through him.

He doesn’t mention anything about it to Dean.

* * *

 

_From the field notes of R. C. Armitage. February 16 th 1989_

_I have been here a week now and still the wealth of nature right at my doorstep is an endless source of wonder to me._

_Just yesterday I spotted a golden eagle diving for fish at the loch. My focus is the raptors but I admit I couldn’t resist setting up a few mist nets in the bordering woodlands for some of the smaller species. I’ve already more successful and varied ringings in a week here than I would in a month back home, if I’d know what an untapped source this area was I would’ve moved a long time ago._

_Whilst research is coming on leaps and bounds, the isolation is beginning to weigh on me. I’ve always been solitary by nature but I haven’t seen another living soul outside of birds and the odd fox all week. Tomorrow I think I’ll take a trip into the village to try and meet a few of my neighbours._

* * *

 

By their third day of trying to clear out what feels like several lifetimes worth of dust from the threadbare furniture and trying to turn the old cottage into something warm and homely, it becomes clear that they’re going to need to make a trip into town.

They need food, something more nutritional than frozen chips and petrol station sandwiches, and, if they get lucky, maybe they’ll come by a second hand furniture dealer.

The nearest village is a few miles away; it is comprised largely of one high street with a thin scattering of bookshops and antique barns down small lanes and alleys. They do, however, have the luxury of a Tesco extra.

Aidan parks the van in what he presumes is a public car park but looks more like someone’s paved driveway.

“Lunch first or furniture?” Aidan asks as he swings the driver door shut. The air is damp and cold and he’s trussed up in four layers to keep the chill out.

“Food,” Dean decides. He’s similarly wrapped up with the lower half of his face hidden behind a brown woollen scarf that muffles his voice. “I saw a pub when we were driving in.”

“Pub grub it is, then.” They fall into step beside each other. “Maybe we’ll meet some of our new neighbours.” Aidan suggests with optimism.

The pub is just as you’d expect a pub in rural Scotland to be. Dark and cosy with a series of rooms that connect to each other like the tunnels of a fox’s warren. The front door is studded with iron and made of solid oak and a sign hangs over it with a painting of a golden eagle and spiralling lettering that reads ‘The Golden Raptor’.

Aidan’s suggestion that they’ll meet some of the locals seems largely in vain as the place is practically empty with just a slight man in glasses on the server side and a ruddy cheeked pensioner propping up the bar. They both turn to look at Dean and Aidan as they enter.

“Are you serving food?” Aidan asks. Dean drifts away from Aidan to inspect a bookcase filled with old leather bound books, none of which look like they were published in the last century.

“The kitchen’s not open, sorry,” the slight man tells them looking genuinely apologetic. “But I could whip you up a ploughman’s each if you like?”

“That sounds perfect, thanks.” Aidan smiles gratefully. He takes a seat at a table close to the door and the slight man disappears into the kitchen to get their food. The ruddy cheeked stranger continues to blatantly stare at them and Aidan gets the distinct impression that they’re the local entertainment. He doesn’t imagine they get many new faces around these parts.

Dean seems too engrossed in the books to notice and Aidan nods at the man with what he hopes is a friendly smile. “Alright, mate?” he asks.

“Aye,” the man says in a thick Scottish brogue. “Aye.”

Aidan looks down, suddenly finding the grain of the wooden table top fascinating. He can still feel the stranger’s eyes on him. He glances over to where Dean is standing, wishing he’d just come and sit down.

“You’re those new one what bought up the old Raptor House aren’t you?” The stranger asks, or that’s what Aidan thinks he asks. In reality, it comes out more like _yer those nee’ns wha’ bou’ yae ole Raptor House inae’ya_

“I’m sorry, Raptor House?” Aidan frowns. From the corner of his eye he can see Dean glance over at them with mild interest but otherwise he remains detached from the conversation.

“He means the cottage out near the old quarry.” The slight man calls out from the kitchen. “You’re the ones that just moved in there, aren’t you?”

“Oh right, yeah that’s us. It’s called the Raptor House?”

The ruddy cheeked stranger is smiling at them, chuckling as he drinks his beer and Aidan feels somewhat relieved. Even if he’s laughing at them, at least he’s smiling.

“Unofficially, that’s what it’s always been known as.” The slight man returns from the kitchen, balancing two plates piled high with cheese, chutney, pickled onions and grapes and a basket filled with fresh crusty bread. “The Raptor Man used to live there before you.” He places the plates on the table and seeing Aidan’s blank expression, he continues, “A wildlife author, specialised in the Scottish raptors. He was quite well known, Armitage maybe you’ve heard of him?”

Aidan shakes his head. “Sorry mate, not really my thing.”

The slight man shrugs. “I wouldn’t expect you to, it’s all quite specialised and he was very reclusive. Anyway, he used to live there so the place has always been known as The Raptor House because of that. Why this place is called The Golden Raptor too… he’s the closest to a celebrity we’ve had around here.”

“What happened to him?” Dean asks. He’s joined the conversation now having drifted from the bookcase to the table and taken a seat.

“He died. They found his body up near the old quarry, must’ve gone walking one evening and slipped and fell. It’s pretty dangerous around there.” He looks sorrowful for a moment, then he brightens with a smile. “My name’s Adam by the way, and that’s Ken over there. Welcome.”

Aidan and Dean introduce themselves, then Adam returns to the bar to refill Ken’s pint, leaving the two of them to eat quietly.

Aidan’s phone vibrates in his pocket. It surprises him, there’s no signal at the cottage and he’d gotten used so used to the quiet that it takes him a moment to work out what it is.

When he retrieves it, he catches sight of Dean side-eyeing it.

“It’s my parents,” Aidan explains as he reads the message. “They’re checking to make sure we got here safely.”

“That’s fine,” Dean says. “I wasn’t checking up on you.”

“No but I wanted to tell you, in case you were interested.”

“It’s fine.” Dean smiles tightly as he spears a pickled onion. “Really.”

The oak door opens and a tall burly man dressed in a green tarp hunting jacket and a flat cap strides into the pub. His sheer presence is intimidating, like he swallows the room whole just by existing and Aidan finds himself shrinking imperceptibly down into his seat.

“Someone’s moved into the Raptor House,” the man says gruffly, slamming big fleshy palms on the bar top. There is an accusatory edge to his tone and Aidan exchanges a worried glance with Dean.

“Aye,” says Ken and he’s laughing heartily. He points his finger to Aidan and Dean’s table. “Them.”

The behemoth turns. He’s sporting a thick grey beard and bushy eyebrows that sit atop severe blue eyes.

Never before has Aidan wished so much that he were invisible as he stares back at this terrifying stranger. He’s half expecting him to cross the room and throw him into the wall. Beside him, he knows that Dean is just as concerned.

“So you’re the ones?” the man says. “What’re you planning on doing with it?”

“We’re renovating it,” says Aidan. They haven’t yet decided if they’re going to settle there or fix it up to sell it on but he thinks it best not to tell that to this guy.

“You’re not planning on tearing it down and turning it into some townie holiday home are you?”

“Graham, enough,” Adam says as he appears once again from the kitchen. “It’s their place; they can do what they like with it.” He frowns at the angry giant, hands on his hips and looking every bit like a scolding school teacher.

“We’re not going to tear it down,” Aidan says, feeling the need to defend their motives. “We’re keeping all the original features.”

“You see?” Adam smiles. “Nothing to worry about. Besides, with them living there the house is going to feel alive again isn’t it? That’s the best thing for it.”

Graham looks between them and Adam, his lips pressed together in a firm line. “Just see that you do,” he grunts.

“Do you want something to drink, Graham?” Adam asks him, holding a glass at the ready but Graham shakes his head, already heading for the door.

“No, no,” he says. “I’ll be off. Things to attend to.”

Adam waits until the door swings shut behind Graham, then he turns to Dean and Aidan.

“Don’t mind him,” he says, smiling at them apologetically. “He means no harm really, just a bit rough around the edges.”

“A bit!” Ken barks and laughs. “Man’s as wild and wooly as they come! Best keep your distance from him lads, our Graham’s a bit protective of that there cottage of yours. Wasn’t very happy when they decided to put it on the market.”

“They’ll be fine,” Adam shushes then he turns to Aidan and Dean. “He won’t bother you.”

Aidan wishes Adam didn’t look so uncertain when he says it.

* * *

 

Their next stop is furniture shopping. There’s nothing so convenient as a Homebase or an Ikea. If they want those they’ll have to drive for two hours to the nearest retail park. So instead, they decide to investigate some of the antique barns in town. The largest of which looks to be some kind of converted sandstone stable with a quaint little hand painted open sign nailed to the stable doors.

When they step inside, they are greeted with a maze of small pathways created by strategically placed furniture. The walls are lined with old framed paintings and mounted plates and all of the surfaces are covered with nick nacks, ale tankards and thimbles, jewellery boxes and porcelain dolls.

It is a cornucopia of forgotten treasures that smells of sawdust and wood resin, homely and warm. As they pick their way through the narrow pathways, a woman with long dark hair peppered with white and pulled into a messy bun appears from one of the back rooms. She has a plump, friendly face with brown eyes that peer at them from over reading spectacles that sit low on her nose.

“Good afternoon boys,” she greets them and her accent is softer, more inviting than the harsh brogue of Ken’s. “My name is Morag how can I be helping you today?”

Morag proves herself to be a master saleswoman and before long she has set them up with all kinds of things; _a table and set of chairs that will look just lovely in the kitchen_ and of course _what’s a kitchen without your own set of copper pots and pans, you can’t buy quality workmanship like that anymore_ and _surely you’ve got a coal stove for the living room, it gets awful nippy during winter you’ll be wanting more than just that fireplace surely._

By the time she’s finished with them, Aidan feels like they’ve packed half her shop into the back of his van. He’s not even sure when they’ll need a butter churn but they’ve got one of those now, possibly two.

However, Morag is so warm with such a friendly manner about her, telling them all kind of stories about the village, that he finds he really doesn’t mind her fleecing them at all.

She tells them her sons a builder in the next village over, so if they need anything done in the cottage they’re to let her know and she’ll get him on it. Also she tells them to stop by anytime they fancy a natter or a cup of tea.

Once they’re on their way again, Aidan feels positively jolly. Even Dean seems to be walking with a lighter bounce to his step.

“Food shop?” Aidan suggests.

“Food shop,” Dean agrees and they head for Tesco extra. They stock up on as many groceries as they think their fridge freezer and cupboard space will allow and throw in a few bottles of wine and beer, figuring it’s high time they had a chance to unwind. At the checkout, Aidan gives in to temptation and asks for a pouch of tobacco, some rollies and a lighter.

“I thought you were trying to quit?” Dean arches a brow.

“Just for emergencies.” Aidan waves him off.

“Your asthma,” Dean reminds him.

“Yes mum.”

Dean sighs and wonders away, but not before Aidan catches his small smile. It sends a small rush of happiness through him. It’s good to see Dean smiling.

* * *

 

“You know it’s strange,” Dean’s saying as he lies back on their new settee, swirling a glass of wine round and round.

“What’s strange?” Aidan asks when it becomes clear Dean’s not going to add to his statement without prompting.

They’re both more than a little tipsy. They’ve got the fire going and with the new furniture replacing the dingy lot from before, the place is beginning to look quite cosy.

“Knowing who lived here before us. That Armitage bloke. It’s weird thinking that all that furniture was his.” Dean has one arm draped over his forehead and he’s picking idly at the corner of one of the orange cushions. He looks calm and relaxed, more so than he has done for a long time. Aidan’s having a hard time taking his eyes off him. “Do you think it’s haunted?”

Aidan takes a moment to catch up on Dean’s train of thought. “Why would it be haunted?” he asks.

“It’s kind of the perfect place for a haunting don’t you think?”

“You don’t believe in that stuff,” Aidan snorts. He’s lying on his stomach by the fire, letting it warm his back and side.

“Nah but if it was going to happen, it would happen here.” Dean cranes his neck to take a healthy sip of wine then rolls his head to gaze at Aidan. “It’s all pretty creepy,” he says with a lazy smile. “Out here in the middle of nowhere. Anything could happen.”

The gentle light of the fire casts a soft orange glow over Dean’s skin, highlighting his cheeks and casting flattering shadows in the hollows. It’s at times like this that Dean really takes Aidan’s breath away and he wonders how he could ever forget how beautiful he is.

“Anything?” Aidan asks, smiling.

“Anything.” Dean stretches a hand out, fingers flexing, beckoning Aidan closer and he crawls up onto his knees then shuffles clumsily over to Dean. He topples and falls into the couch half on top of Dean and Dean ‘oofs’ and laughs, nearly dropping his wine glass.

“Careful, you oaf.”

“You’re beautiful,” Aidan says. “So beautiful.”

Dean’s smile fades, but his eyes remain soft. He gazes up into Aidan’s eyes, searching and vulnerable and he lifts the hand across his brow to cup Aidan’s cheek. His thumb traces the curve of Aidan’s lower lip, thumbnail catching and pulling it down ever so slightly.

“Is this…” Aidan swallows. He turns his face to kiss Dean’s palm, pressing his lips against his warm flesh. “Is this ok?”

Dean doesn’t answer. He removes his hand and lifts his head to kiss Aidan.

Aidan’s been waiting so long to kiss Dean again that his breath catches. He stays there, wide eyed and frozen, not daring to move in case he breaks the spell. The feel of Dean’s soft lips against his is so powerful that he’s not entirely sure they aren’t burning him.

Slowly, Dean pulls back, brows pinched with concern. “Aid?” he asks so quietly it’s barely above a whisper.

“Sorry.” Aidan blinks and shakes his head. “Sorry, just, stunned there for a moment.”

“In a good way, I hope,” Dean says with a small smile but there’s an edge of insecurity there that Aidan wants to drive away. He ducks his head and captures Dean’s lips in another kiss, wavering the line between heated and lingering, wanting it to last for as long as damn possible. Dean makes a small noise in the back of his throat. He sets his glass down somewhere unseen by the foot of the settee and his hand winds around the back of Aidan’s head, fingers tangling through his curls.

Aidan hoists himself up onto the couch. His leg wedges between Dean and the cushions and the other knee works its way between Dean’s thighs, rubbing up against Dean’s crotch. Dean’s hips jerk and he gasps, his fingers tightening painfully in Aidan’s hair.

“I love you,” Aidan says fiercely against Dean’s lips. “I love you so much.” His tongue darts out, seeking access and just to taste Dean again, the wine and the warmth of Dean’s mouth, just to have that again, it’s so damn intoxicating it consumes him.

“Wait.” Dean’s grip has changed in Aidan’s hair; it’s tugging, trying to pull him away. “Wait wait, stopstopstop.”

Immediately, Aidan backs off. Sliding his knee away from Dean’s groin he sits back on his heels and stares down at Dean, breathing hard. Dean stares up at him, eyes wide as he pants.

“I’m sorry,” Aidan says. “Shit I’m sorry.” He slides down from the couch to kneel on the ground beside Dean, running a hand back through his hair.

“It’s fine.” Dean takes Aidan’s hand, interlocking their fingers. “Sorry, just, too fast. I freaked out, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologise, you’ve nothing to be sorry about.”

“Sorry,” Dean says. Then he says again, “Sorry. Aah!”

Aidan snorts and Dean smiles ruefully. Then Aidan takes their interlocked fingers and kisses each one of Dean’s knuckles as he stares up at him. “You’re perfect,” he tells him between each kiss. “So perfect. I’m so lucky. We take this at your pace, ok? I got carried away. I’m sorry.”

“You should stop saying sorry too,” Dean tells him, staring down at their hands.

“Right, can we both agree that we’re both very sorry and it doesn’t need to be said anymore?”

“Agreed,” says Dean.

Aidan chuckles, then he moans and drops his head down against Dean’s chest, burying his face in his shirt. “I love you,” he says, voice muffled.

“I know,” Dean says and Aidan feels him kiss the top of his head. “I’m trying.”

And it’s all Aidan can ask for, really.


	2. I know I've been a liar and I know I've been a fool

_From the field notes of R. C. Armitage. February 17 th 1989_

_The village is a funny place. There are so few residents, but they are all such characters. It is like another world here. Tiny in comparison to home, but the people that fill it are giants._

_I can’t write very much, I have nothing particularly new to report and I am waiting for Mr. McTavish to pay a visit with a delivery I couldn’t fit into my Vauxhall._

_Mr. McTavish, he is a strange man. I actually met him on my very first day; he was part of the welcome party. I was so frightened of him back then. He carries himself with such a gruff, surly demeanour I was half convinced that he was about to tell me to turn around and drive right back home again._

_But having spoken to him today, I feel I know him better now and I find he is quite the opposite to what I thought he was. He is kind with a certain charm to him. He may not be a man of very many words, but then neither am I._

_I must go, I think I hear him arriving now._

* * *

 

The following day, even though he’s more than a little hung over, Aidan ventures out into the woods for more firewood.

He’s never had a wood fire before and he’s surprised by the amount of logs you can go through in just one night. Considering it’s not raining for the first time since they’d arrived, he figured now was as good a time as any.

He leaves Dean with the job of beating out the upstairs carpets, the dust is already playing havoc with his asthma and he’d prefer not to spend the rest of the day wheezing like a backed up engine.

As he makes his way through the woods bordering their cottage, Aidan thrusts his hands deep into his pockets and breathes in the brisk, clean air. If there’s one thing in the favour of living out in the middle of nowhere, it’s how clear the air is.

Small twigs and leaves crunch and snap underfoot and Aidan climbs the stiles to get from field to field, picking up decent sized branches as he finds them.

When he reaches the furthest field and the border of trees beyond, he pauses and turns back to look at the cottage. It stands on the slight rise of the hill clear as anything. He can see Dean standing out by the garden shed, beating the hallway rug with a cricket bat. If he squints hard enough, he can just make out shapes in the windows. That thought unnerves him when he thinks back to the figure he’d seen standing in this exact same spot. Although he hasn’t seen them again since, he still can’t shake the memory. He’ll catch himself looking over the copse of trees some days, just searching for that tell-tale flash of colour.

Who had it been? What had they been staring at?

Frowning, he returns to his hunt for firewood.

This part of the field must be in some kind of golden spot because as he stoops to pick up a particularly solid looking branch, Aidan feels his phone vibrate in his back pocket.

Fishing it out, he wonders why he even brought it with him; it must have been pure habit. The message is from an unsaved number and when he opens it, his stomach sinks.

_I miss you._ Is all it reads.

Aidan glances guiltily up at the house, at Dean who continues to beat at the rug, completely oblivious. He deletes the text without replying and switches his phone off.

 

* * *

 

By the time he gets back to the cottage, Dean has finished with the rugs and has disappeared inside.

He finds him curled up on the orange settee a battered journal propped open in his lap.

“What’s that?”

Dean glances up at him then back down at the journal. “I found it under a loose floorboard upstairs. I think it belonged to that Armitage guy."

Aidan comes to stand behind Dean, leaning against the back of the settee; he looks down at the journal over Dean’s shoulder. The pages are browned with age, but the ink is still legible. The penmanship is neat and elegant, a refined cursive.

“Listen to this.” Dean props the book higher in his lap and clears his throat. “In my eagerness to discover the hidden Peregrine nest, I ventured further into the quarry, not realising just how precarious the path was. Through my own blunder, I slipped and fell some five feet onto a ledge, twisting my ankle badly. I was lucky not to have sustained worse injury, considering. Regardless, I could not put weight on the injury and I was quite stuck.” Dean trails off, lips silently moving as he speed reads ahead a few paragraphs. “It was coming onto late evening and a chill was settling that went right through to my bones, my coat proving useless. I was close to giving up hope of ever being found when who should come upon me but Mr. McTavish. He had grown concerned by my absence and had decided to come looking for me, much to my eternal gratitude.”

“Ok?” Aidan says uncertainly. “That’s… great?” He’s not sure he sees the importance of it. Dean waves a hand impatiently, signalling for Aidan to shush.

“Wait let me get to it…” Dean reads silently ahead again until… “If it had not been for him, I fear I would have been stuck on that ledge all night, if not much longer. I may sound overly dramatic when I say this, but I believe I may owe Graham my life.” With that, Dean turns triumphant eyes on Aidan.

Aidan purses his lips then shrugs. “Still not following.”

“Graham!” Dean says, enunciating the name. “What other Graham have we met since coming here? It’s got to be him, it has to be!”

“I guess.” Aidan shrugs. “What’re you going to do about it?”

“I don’t know, it’s just interesting don’t you think? This has been here the whole time hidden away and no one’s ever known about it ‘til now.”

“Sure.” Aidan strokes his fingers through the soft hairs at the back of Dean’s neck but Dean shrugs him off. He clambers to his feet and disappears into the kitchen.

“Where’re you going?” Aidan calls after him.

“I need better light,” Dean shouts back through.

“Of course you do,” Aidan says with a sigh. Leaving Dean to his mystery work, he sets about breaking the branches into kindling and stacking them up in the crate by the fireplace.

 

* * *

 

That night, the heavens open, quite literally it feels like. Aidan doesn’t think he’s ever experienced a storm like it, and growing up in Ireland, that’s saying something.

The wind howls outside, rattling the windows and ripping through the rafters like a baying hound. Rain lashes down, drumming against the roof and gushing from the gutters.

Aidan hunkers down under the covers, shivering just from the sound of how miserable it is out there. Beside him, Dean has his nose buried in the journal, reading by the light of the bedside lamp. It’s as if he hasn’t even noticed the storm of the century raging outside.

Aidan’s not sure how that’s possible; he’s genuinely worried that the house is going to be blown away with them inside.

“Good read?” he asks with an edge to his tone. Dean hums distractedly, turning a page.

“Can we take a trip into town tomorrow?” Dean looks up from the journal just long enough to glance at Aidan.

“Sure, if we’re not flooded. Why?”

“Oh I just want to ask around about a few things.”

“You’re not planning on talking to Graham about that book, are you?”

“Maybe.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

 “And why not?”

“If it really is him then maybe it’s a touchy subject for him. The guy did die after all.” Aidan shrugs. “Wouldn’t hurt to show a bit of sensitivity.”

“I do show sensitivity.” Dean frowns as he closes the journal and sets it on the bedside table. “What’s the matter with you, anyway?”

“Nothing,” Aidan says quickly. “I’m just tired and I can hardly sleep with that shit going on outside.”

Dean blinks. Slowly, he starts to smile. “You’re telling me you’re grumpy because it’s raining?”

“I’m not grumpy.”

“You are grumpy.” Dean’s smiling fully now and he shuffles into Aidan’s side. Aidan lifts his arm, automatically hooking it around Dean’s shoulders and folding him in. “You’ve got your grumpy face on.”

“I don’t have my… that’s just my face.”

Dean pokes him in the ribs. “Grumpy face,” he grins.

“Idiot,” Aidan glowers and tries not to smile. “Turn your light off at least. We might as well try and get some sleep if we can.”

 

* * *

 

_From the field notes of R. C. Armitage. March 23 rd 1989_

_I fear something has arisen that I am not entirely certain how to deal with._

_Over the past weeks, I have been meeting frequently with Graham. Ever since that night at the quarry, we have formed a certain bond of friendship. He often accompanies me on my bird ringing and he has shown me many a valuable spot to catch sight of the ever elusive peregrine falcons._

_I find myself enjoying his quiet company more and more, and herein lies the problem._

_I believe I may be developing feelings for Graham and I’m not entirely sure what to do about them._

_Telling him would risk ruining our friendship or worse. I know my nature is not widely accepted, especially in remote locations such as this. But at the same time, I am finding it very difficult denying these feelings._

_If only he could give me a clear and definite sign of his feelings for me._

 

* * *

 

The only word Aidan can think of to describe the aftermath of the storm is ‘disastrous’.

Dean whistles and toes at one of the shattered shingles on the ground. The wind really did a number on the roof. At least a third of the slate tiles have been blown away and a good two metres of the gutter has been ripped from the wall and now hangs at a ninety degree angle.

“Morag said she’d get her son to come out if we needed anything,” Dean suggests, his hands pushed deep in his pockets. “He’s a builder.”

“I guess we’re headed into town after all.”

 

* * *

 

In the village, the two of them go their separate ways. Aidan’s not sure what it is Dean’s wanting to do, but he has a feeling (99% certainty) that it’s to do with that journal of his.

Aidan makes his way to Morag’s antiques shop first, and arranges through her for her son to come out to help with repairs at some point. He disengages himself successfully without buying anything, though it takes some effort.

He then stops off in what looks like a combination hardware store and newsagents and buys himself a few tools that he thinks he might need, and then on a whim, he picks up a packet of skittles. Afterwards, he finds himself wondering aimlessly down the main street of the village. There isn’t that much else that he needs to do, and there isn’t much else in the village _to_ do.

His phone has been switched off since the previous day, but he decides to risk it and turn it on to send a quick update to his parents.

Almost as soon as the logo flashes across the screen, it vibrates with a new message. The same unsaved number from before.

_Are you ok?_

Even though he knows he’s alone, Aidan casts a guilty look over his shoulder. Then he hastily types out a quick message, _Stop it,_ and hits send.

It’s a mistake. Minutes after he sends the message, his phone rings. Aidan cancels the call but the phone rings again seconds later.

“I told you to leave me alone,” he growls as soon as he answers the call. “Stop calling, stop texting, just stop it. I made my choice.” He ends the call and turns around, only to find Dean standing there, a bag of books in hand and looking utterly crestfallen.

“Dean, I was just…”

“Are you ready to go?” Dean interrupts him. He doesn’t wait for Aidan’s answer, just brushes past him back to the van.

Internally cursing everything under the sun, Aidan follows.

 

* * *

 

The drive home is tense and silent.

Dean is frozen, absolutely lifeless in the passenger seat. He clutches his bag of books in a white knuckle grip and doesn’t look at Aidan.

Aidan doesn’t know what to say.

“Dean,” he tries. “Can we talk?” Nothing.

“I was just…”

“Stop it,” Dean snaps. “Just shut up.”

So Aidan does.

When they get to the cottage, Dean can’t get out of the van fast enough.

He slams the door and disappears inside, leaving Aidan to gather the tools and follow at a more sedate pace.

Dean’s already upstairs with the bedroom door shut and Aidan decides to leave him until he’s ready to come down and talk.

At a loss, and with the heavy feeling of guilt weighing down his stomach, he turns into the kitchen and sets about preparing dinner for that evening, waiting for Dean.

 

* * *

 

Much later, when night has long since fallen, Aidan hears footsteps on the stairs and Dean appears in the kitchen doorway. He’s still angry, but he’s trying to swallow it down. Aidan doesn’t want that, he wants them to talk and for Dean to let it out or it’s going to poison him.

They’ve spent too long not talking.

“Ok,” Dean says as he braces himself by the kitchen table. “Let’s talk.” He takes a deep breath. “I’d hoped that us coming here would leave all that behind.”

Aidan had been washing the vegetables; he sets the colander down and turns with his back to the sink, facing Dean. “She rang me; I was just telling her to leave us alone.”

“How many times has she called?” Dean asks. “Texted?”

“Texted twice. I didn’t reply.”

“I thought we were trying the honesty thing.”

Aidan sighs. “I didn’t tell you because it was nothing; I deleted them as soon as I got them. I didn’t want to upset you.”

“Oh God.” Dean laughs, a harsh, mirthless sound in the back of his throat. “Thanks for that, really good of you.”

“We haven’t really been talking though, have we? We’ve just been going on while this… this _thing_ has been a great bloody elephant in the room. Christ Dean…” Aidan runs his hands through his hair and works his jaw, muscles bunching and tensing. “I’ve been walking on eggshells this whole time just waiting for you to be ready.”

“I forgave you,” Dean snaps. “That’s why we came here isn’t it? To get a fresh start?”

“But you haven’t really, have you? I can see it in your face every time you look at me.”

“You want to know what I see when I look at you?” Dean asks, his voice is getting raw and high and Aidan can see that he’s shaking. “I see her. I fucking see you and her. Every time. It’s fucking…” he breaks off. He looks away and his knuckles where they grip the table are bone white.

“I’m sorry Dean.” Aidan says softly, he averts his gaze downwards and he feels suddenly like a small boy again, being frog marched by his mother and forced to look at his mess. He can’t look at Dean. “I will never stop being sorry. I wish I could take it back, all of it.”

“But you can’t.” Dean sounds like he’s on the verge of tears, his face is red and his eyes are damp and angry. “It’s not that fucking easy Aidan. You think I can just forgive you and move on easy as punch? I have to work at it every day. I have to fucking live with it every day.” He cuts off when his voice breaks, and then he starts again, quieter, gritting each word. “You broke my heart, Aidan. I’m trying to love you even while knowing that _you_ did this to me. Fuck…” Dean pushes away from the table and stands lost and broken in the middle of the kitchen, face buried in his hands. Aidan wants to move to him but when he steps forward, Dean backs up, retreating to the hallway. “This was a mistake. All of this was a fucking mistake. We should just… we should just sell this place ok? Just sell it and give up this bullshit game.”

“Don’t say that,” Aidan pleads. Dean shakes his head, looking so wounded that it kills Aidan.

“This isn’t working, Aid,” Dean tells him. “We fucked up.”

“I fucked up,” says Aidan. Dean doesn’t correct him.

Very meekly and very quietly, Dean turns away and climbs the stairs. Aidan hears him close the bedroom door.

He rakes a hand over his face and turns back to the vegetables sitting in the colander, sighing explosively. After a moment, he pulls out his phone, glaring down at it accusatorily, then he opens the kitchen window and flings it as hard as he can out into the fields.

Shutting the window again, he hangs his head and swears to himself, calling himself every name under the sun.

 

* * *

 

_From the field notes of R. C. Armitage. April 3 rd 1989_

_Something terrible has happened, I feel like such a fool I can barely even bring myself to write down the words._

_I confessed to Graham. Like an idiot, we were out ringing and I told him everything. He stood there while I went on and on like a babbling fool, I cringe just to think about how I must have seemed. I don’t know what I was expecting. For him to just drop the mist nets right there in the woods and kiss me? Oh I’m just such a fool, a stupid blind idiot._

_He said nothing to me, not one word. He turned and quite silently left me alone._

_How could I have been so rash? I should leave tonight. I dread what must be going through his mind, what if he’s in the village now, telling everyone of the pervert who lives in the cottage?_

_I should leave before they chase me out._


	3. I hope we didn't break yet, but I'm glad we broke the rules

The next morning, very early, Aidan is awoken by Dean sliding onto the settee next to him. It’s small, too small for the both of them and Aidan’s back is stiff and aching, but he wraps his arms around Dean and Dean curls into him.

The morning light through the window is grey, an endless expanse of clouds blocking out the sunrise. Aidan kisses the top of Dean’s head. He breathes in and he smells soap and something woody, lingering dust from the cottage.

“I love you,” Aidan says into the quiet. Dean angles his head up. He kisses Aidan on the corner of his mouth and then buries his face into the crook of Aidan’s shoulder and neck.

“I want us to be ok,” Aidan continues.

“I know,” Dean whispers into his skin. “Me too.”

“I told her to leave us alone. I made my choice.”

“I know,” Dean says again.

“Do you still want to sell this place?”

After a pause, Dean shakes his head, no.

Aidan holds him tight and rocks the both of them, lulling them back to sleep. They’re wrapped up in each other, quite literally now with Dean’s legs twined between Aidan’s and sharing each other’s warmth. They’re safely ensconced in their little cocoon on the settee where nothing of the outside world can touch them, not even the dawn, and for now, it’s good.

* * *

 

Aidan’s standing in his makeshift office.

It’s a box room with a futon against one wall and his desk against the other and all his files stacked on an ikea bookshelf he and Dean had constructed once upon a time with minimal effort (only three screws left over and so far it has only collapsed once).

He stares at those files with his arms folded, and then he reaches out and wipes at the thin layer of dust that has settled on them. He inspects his finger, wondering how they could possibly have been here long enough to start gathering dust already. It doesn’t feel like that long ago that they first carted everything in from the van. He supposes it has been a couple months now; time seems irrelevant in their little bubble.

Aidan pulls down a green binder and opens it. It’s a transcript of the last case he’d been working on before he left. He reads the crib notes sketched into the margin in red pen. It’s not his handwriting, it’s feminine, pressed lightly onto the page and lilting to the right.

Carrying the binder to the futon, he sits down as he palms through the pages. He sees the red pen and he can see her clearly in his mind, leaning against the doorframe, smiling a crooked smile, a bottle of wine and two glasses in hand. _If we’re both stuck afterhours we might as well make the most of it._

She was always smiling, and her lips were always perfectly red, leaving smears of it everywhere like she was leaving parts of herself. Lipstick on the glass, lipstick on the filters of her cigarettes. _Lipstick on the collar,_ that’s what they say for affairs isn’t it?

There’s a sound at the doorway and Aidan looks up and for a second he expects to see her standing there. It’s Dean, Aidan sets the binder down and smile brightly to hide the usual surge of guilt when Dean finds him in here. He’s not sure why, Dean never says anything, never shows that he has any problem with it. It just feels like something Aidan shouldn’t be doing.

“Hey! Fancy going for a walk?” Aidan asks.

Dean wrinkles his nose. “It’s raining,” he says.

“So? A little bit of rain never hurt anyone.” Aidan hugs Dean and kisses the top of his head. Dean gives him a strange look but says nothing. “Ok,” Aidan says. “What do you want to do instead?”

“Christ, I don’t know. It’d be nice to get out the house but not have to drown to do so.”

It’s true, they’ve been cooped up for days now it feels like. They hadn’t counted on this part of country living, when the weather is awful and there’s no shopping malls or multiplexes to escape to. They’re both beginning to go stir crazy.

“We could always get more painting done.”

Dean groans, hides his face against Aidan’s shoulder. “Save me,” he mumbles. “I’m sick of painting. Fuck it, let’s go for a walk.”

* * *

 

Wearing wellingtons boots and coats with their hoods pulled up, Aidan and Dean walk aimlessly down the road. There’s nowhere in particular they’re aiming to get to, with the rain and the light fog, there’s not much of any sights to see.

Dean’s walking slightly ahead of Aidan wielding a stick he’d found on the side of the road like a cane. It’s too wet and muddy to walk through the field so they’re sticking to the road. It’s times like this that Aidan thinks to himself how nice it would be to have a dog.

He can hear the rain pattering on the hood of his coat, dull muffled splats that are loud in his ears so he can’t hear much else. They come to a sharp bend in the road and Dean stops. Aidan has no idea why until he catches up with Dean and sees a dirty green range rover parked in the ditch at the end of the road. Aidan recognises the car, it’s Graham’s.

“Let’s cut through the woods,” Aidan suggests, not particularly relishing the thought of running into Graham. His last encounter had been somewhat unsavoury and he'd seen him around town since then and had always gotten chills from him. There’s just something… _off_ about the other man.

Dean doesn’t move. Aidan tugs at his elbow and Dean shrugs him off.

“Don’t tell me you’re scared of him,” Dean says with a small laugh.

“Not scared. I just don’t see the point in trying to socialise with him when he obviously wants nothing to do with us.”

“That’s not true,” says Dean. “It’s just the house. He’s obviously got a history with it. Maybe we should try and get to know him.”

Dean’s got that look on his face. Aidan knows that look, it’s the look Dean gets when he’s really set his mind on something and good luck to anyone who tries to dissuade him of it. Sometimes Dean reminds Aidan of a dog with a bone, a really small sturdy dog, like a staffie.

He sighs but says nothing more of the matter and follows Dean towards the range rover. Graham’s inside with a large dog sitting next to him and a box of sandwiches on the dashboard. He’s alternating between feeding pieces of meat to the dog and feeding himself when he sees them through the rain spattered windshield. He stops, a sandwich poised halfway to his mouth, his expression stony as ever.

Dean walks forwards confidently and Aidan waggles his fingers in greeting then drops his hand into his pocket and clears his throat uncomfortably. They stand by the driver’s side for a good few seconds before Graham slowly winds down the window.

“You alright?” he asks, voice brusque, like a bark.

“Fine,” Dean says. “We were just taking a walk.”

Graham looks up, at the grey clouds and endless fall of rain. Aidan’s never felt more mad for taking a walk.

“Are you ok?” Dean asks.

“Aye,” says Graham. “The fence in Johnson’s field needed fixing. Sheep don’t wait for the rain.” As he says this, the large dog shakes its head and showers the three of them with muddy water.

“Cute dog,” Aidan says.

Graham grunts. He looks at them and they look at him and the three of them stand in silence.

“You take care of yourself,” Graham says to them then. He feeds a scrap of ham to the dog who gobbles it up greedily. “A lot of city folks get themselves into a world of trouble walking places they shouldn’t around here. Don’t go doing anything daft.”

“Do you want some tea?” Dean asks. Aidan looks at him askance. Graham, for his part, looks vaguely surprised before going back to his gruff frown.

“Nah, you’re alright,” he says and he pushes the dog aside and winds the window up. Dean and Aidan step back as Graham starts the range rover and pulls away, then they watch him drive down the empty road until he disappears into the fog.

“Do you want some tea?” Aidan mimicks.

“I was being nice,” Dean says.

“Yeah but tea?”

“It’s what people around here like to do around here isn’t it?”

“Oh my God, Dean,” Aidan groans good-naturedly. He slings and arm around Dean’s soggy shoulders. “Let’s go home.”

* * *

 

Sunday brings the first bit of sunshine they’ve had all week. Aidan’s crouched on the sloped roof, carefully braced so he won’t slip and fall.

He and Morag’s son, Ramsey, have been working on retiling the roof for the better part of the morning. The slate tiles are half price, Ramsey’s explained to them that it’s a special deal for locals- _any friend of mam’s is a friend of mine._

Aidan stretches a kink out of his back and groans, he thinks it’s been a long damn time since he’s ever done so much manual labour.

Never having been one for hard work or heights, Dean’s inside reading more of Armitage’s journal. He’s bought a collection of Armitage’s published ornithological journals from one of the second hand bookshops and he has them spread out in front of him in the living room. It seems to have become a real pet project for him; Aidan supposes it’s providing him with a good distraction.

Aidan reaches into his pocket for the bag of skittles he’d bought in town and pours some directly into his mouth, then he offers the packet to Ramsey.

“Some of these are so loose I think they’ve just been sitting here waiting for the first bad wind to blow them off,” Ramsey comments as he hammers a nail down with two efficient smacks.

“The cottage’s been sitting empty for over twenty years,” Aidan comments, crab walking down the slope to retrieve more nails. “Everything’s pretty old and battered.”

“Aye but not as bad as it should be,” says Ramsey. “Winters here get bitter. I think someone’s been coming up here, fixing up the place.”

“You think so?” Aidan looks up at Ramsey. “Who?”

Ramsey shrugs. He pops a nail between his teeth to free his hands as he adjusts his crouch and then mumbles around it, “Didn’t you say the generator was working when you came here? Seems mighty odd after twenty years don’t you think?” He plucks the nail free and lines it up with one of the tiles, hammering it down. “Nah, you ask me, someone’s been caring for this place a long time. A real labour of love.”

Aidan frowns. He thinks again of the figure he’d seen in the woods and he wonders…

“So are you lads looking forward to the Shinty?” Ramsey asks, oblivious to Aidan’s troubling thoughts.

“The what?”

“Shinty, there’s a match on Saturday. It’s a big one – all the neighbouring villages come together for it, there’s pie and cakes and all sorts, you lads hadn’t heard about it?”

“I don’t even know what Shinty is, mate.”

“Oh you’d best come along then,” Ramsey says with a devilish twinkle in his eye. “You’re in for a treat.”

* * *

 

They’ve kept the grandfather clock in the entrance hall. Even though it’s gutted and is unlikely to ever tick again, there’s something permanent about its position in the cottage. It feels wrong to remove it.

The rest of the cottage is beginning to feel more and more like their own. It’s a strange mix of original features, cosily mismatched second hand furniture, and the few modern pieces they’d brought with them.

Most of the carpets were unsalvageable, too stained with mildew and too worn with age so they’ve ripped them up and sanded down the floorboards and draped a collection of rugs through the rooms to stave off the chill.

The place is beginning to feel like home to them. It’s nice. Aidan thinks that maybe he could get used to living here. Most days he doesn’t even miss the city any more or his old life.

Sometimes, however, it will come back to him when he least expects it. A pang of loss over what he has given up. He’ll be repainting the window frames a glossy black to contrast with the grey stone and he’ll suddenly feel it. Or he’ll pass by his study and he’ll catch sight of the boxes from his office and he’ll remember the smell of old books and coffee.

Most days he doesn’t miss it. But some days he remembers and he has a hard time deciding who he is now.

* * *

 

On the morning of the Shinty match, Dean doesn’t want to get out of bed. He rolls over and grumbles something unintelligible into the pillow and when Aidan tries to steal the blankets Dean swats at him and rolls himself up like a pancake.

Aidan drinks his coffee alone outside, leaning against the doorframe as he watches the fields. There’s a scattering of pheasants wandering near the fence. Two males and a more humbly coloured female. One of the males hops up onto the fence post with a flap of his wings and he sits there, his long plume of a tail hanging down. It paints a peaceful scene, the green field in the early morning light. It’s calming.

Aidan finishes his coffee and sets the empty mug in the sink. He shuffles on his boots and sits on the bottom step to tie the laces. Just before he leaves he calls up the stairs “Last chance! I’m taking the van so you’ll be stuck if you change your mind.”

Dean doesn’t change his mind. Aidan leaves him to it and drives into the village. It’s the busiest he’s ever seen it and he has to manoeuvre his way between groups of people milling through the high street before he finds an available parking space.

The main street of the village is festooned with yellow and blue bunting leading right up to the playing field behind the church.

The community centre, a small building next to the church and bordering the field is the central hub of the entire village. It serves many purposes, a changing room for the children on sports day, a tea room for the church goers on Sundays, it’s where all the jumble sales and craft fairs are held, almost everything the village does, it take place in that small building. There’s a locked stockroom filled with old Christmas decorations and Easter baskets, a giant red heart made out of cardboard and balled up crepe paper for valentine’s day.

Today, the doors to the centre are opened wide and there are tables serving home baked cakes and tea brewed in a great big stainless steel urn. Hardwood benches have been brought out and lined up around the edges of the field. It reminds Aidan very much of the school sports days he’d go to when he was a child. Only rather than eight year olds running egg and spoon races, the field is filled with grown men intent on killing each other. Or that’s what it seems like to him.

Shinty, as it turns out, is similar to field hockey, only with fewer rules and a lot more blood lust. In fact, one of the only rules Aidan can see seems to be ‘hit your opponent as much as bloody possible’.

“Jesus!” Aidan winces in sympathy when one player bludgeons another with the blunt end of the stick (a _caman_ , is what Aidan has been told it’s called). “Is that legal?”

He’s sitting with Adam and Morag on one of the benches. Ramsey’s playing for the home team and Morag is bellowing ferocious encouragement to her son and sounding every bit like a Scottish Valkyrie.

Adam, who is a lot calmer, though still dressed from head to toe in yellow and blue, nods at Aidan with a cheerful smile. “Oh definitely,” he says. “As long as they don’t hack it.”

“Hack it?”

At that point, someone scores a goal; Aidan presumes it’s their team because Morag jumps to her feet with an almighty roar, fists pumping the air.

Adam’s smiling at Aidan good naturedly like he’s fully aware of what Aidan must be thinking. “You’ll get used to it,” he tells him with a pat on his shoulder. “Maybe one day you’ll be playing it.”

“Maybe…” Aidan’s not too certain about that. Watching sports on the TV is one thing, playing it is quite another.

Around the point that Ramsey takes down three of the opposing team in a row, Aidan excuses himself to make a tea run.

They’re serving the tea in china cups from the church pantry so Aidan lingers by the table as he drinks his, chatting to the lady behind the table.

She’s red faced and a little breathless but pleasant and she offers him a slice of cherry cake wrapped in a napkin. The cherries are plump and red and burst when he bites into them, filling his mouth with sweet juice. There’s nothing quite like home baking with real butter and good, fresh flour.

“I stayed up til eleven at night baking those,” she says as she brushes hair out of her eyes with the back of her hand. “And two dozen scones for the church’s afternoon tea the day after. I tell you they only want me for my baking.” She sighs and looks put upon but she seems happy enough, never quite losing her wide smile and Aidan thinks she obviously doesn’t mind so much, being needed by the village for something. It must be a nice feeling, like you belong, like you matter.

“It’s very good,” he says. She huffs and waves him away but her smile grows so big that her eyes crinkle in the corners.

Aidan end up buying a whole cherry cake for himself and Dean and a couple of the scones with fresh cream and homemade jam. As he makes his way back to the group, with the bag of cakes tucked under his arm and two teas for Morag and Adam, he catches sight of Graham’s green range rover parked at the very far end of the field.

“Graham’s here,” Aidan says, handing a tea to Adam and the other to Morag. “Lurking seems to be a habit for him.”

“Hmm?” Adam glances at the range rover then back at Aidan curiously.

“I’ve seen him hanging around near the cottage too, his range rover’s becoming a bit of a fixture.”

“Oh he’s ok,” Adam says, shrugging. “He’s just a little private.” There's a roar in the crowd as one of the teams looks close to scoring and that seems to put an end to their conversation.

It strikes Aidan however that whether or not Graham is a private person, it doesn’t explain why he’d be hanging around theirs so often.

* * *

 

_From the field notes of R. C. Armitage. April 9th_ _1989_

_Days have passed and I still haven’t heard from or seen Graham since my confession. I suppose my only comfort is that no one else has shown up here either. It seems he’s keeping my secret, at least for now._

_I’ve been putting all my focus into my research. My work has come on leaps and bounds, it somewhat redeems how slack I have otherwise been lately. I’ve recorded quite a few sightings of peregrine falcon and I believe there may be one nesting nearby. There’s been a lot of activity in the loch by the quarry, I think perhaps they are nesting there. I’ll have to make a trip out there soon, see if I can find out where._


	4. I cover my eyes, still all I see is you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two updates in under a week never mind a month, well blow me! But no there's one more chapter to go after this which is good. Part of the problem, I think, with updating is it's such a huge commitment tying up loose ends, like you know they need to be tied but you want to do it just right so you end up putting it off and putting it off... or I do in any case. But now that the ends are pretty much tied in this fic I'm thinking the last part won't be so bad so yey! Thank you for your patience, seriously, I know I'm awful.
> 
> Oh! Also Phelpshobbit did absolutely beautiful fan art for this fic (http://gayvampiresandgods.tumblr.com/post/62710741210/do-you-still-want-to-sell-this-place-after-a) It's gorgeous and perfect and I can't stop looking at it so everyone else should go look too. Thank you love!

_Dean locked himself in the bedroom the night of Aidan’s confession. He’d never been one to get loud. When Dean got upset he’d go quiet, he’d go pale like the blood had been drained from him, and he’d retreat. Aidan spent the whole night sitting outside the bedroom, pleading with Dean through the door, begging him to talk to him. He was sorry, he was so sorry, he hated that he did it, he hated that he’d hurt him. Just please, please come out, please don’t leave._

_Eventually Dean did come out. Around dawn, the door clicked open. Aidan had been dozing against it and he’d jerked awake just early enough that he didn’t fall backwards onto Dean’s feet. He looked up at Dean and Dean looked down at him and it was clear that Dean had been crying, his eyes red and bloodshot._

_Without a word, Dean stepped over him and walked into the living room. Climbing to his feet, Aidan followed him. Dean took a seat on the armchair and Aidan sat on the couch opposite. It was impossible to read Dean’s expression, Aidan realised he had no idea what Dean was about to say and it terrified him._

_“Dean,” Aidan said. “I’m so, so sorry, really I am.”_

_“Don’t.” Dean interrupted him, voice short. He took a deep, shaking breath and he closed his eyes. “Don’t,” he said again, whispered._

_So Aidan didn’t. They sat there in silence for a long while. Aidan watching Dean and Dean just… sitting. Hunched and broken and raw._

_Dean took another long breath, bracing himself, and then he spoke again. “I want you to leave. I don’t want to talk.  If you talk you’re only going to convince me to let you stay and I don’t want that.”_

_“Ok,” Aidan said. He cleared his throat. “Ok I’ll- I’ll stay at Russell’s.”_

_“Yeah.” Dean nodded. He hadn’t met Aidan’s eyes the entire time, not fully. “That’s what I want.”_

 

* * *

 

“Hey.” Aidan tosses a sunflower seed at Dean. It bounces off the pages of the journal and into his lap.

“What?” Dean brushes the seed to the floor without looking up.

“You’re an island over there.” Aidan pops a handful of seeds into his mouth, sucking on the salt.

“I’m right here.”

“No you’re not. You’re in your own little world.”

“I’m reading,” says Dean. He’s curled up in the armchair using the light from the window to read by. Aidan’s sprawled on his back on the settee, ankles crossed over the armrest and a pile of sunflower shells on the floor near his head.

“I’m bored.”

“Then go do something. Start stripping the cabinets.”

Aidan huffs and rolls his head back, showing just what he thinks of that idea. Dean, for his part, ignores him and turns another page. He frowns, sitting up straight, his mouth opening in a surprised little ‘oh’.

“It’s blank,” he says.

“What?

Dean flips through the last few pages of the journal. “The rest of the pages, they’re blank.”

“I guess he just stopped using it.”

“No, but it stops so suddenly. He mentions planning to go down to the quarry and then…” Dean’s shoulders sink as realisation dawns. “Oh,” he says, despondently.

“Must’ve been when he died. What was the date?” Aidan cranes his neck to try and see the journal propped in Dean’s lap.

“But it can’t be… he doesn’t mention anything about him and Graham. He can’t have just died without them talking.”

“I wonder how McTavish would feel about us using him as our own private little soap opera,” Aidan ponders.

“This isn’t funny, Aid. It’s horrible.”

“We kind of knew it was going to happen. I mean spoiler alert, he’s dead.”

Dean glares at him. Belatedly, Aidan realises Dean is actually upset by this. Climbing to his feet, he brushes shell shrapnel from his shirt and squats down next to Dean’s arm chair. “I’m sorry Deano. I know it’s sad the guy’s dead.”

“You don’t get it,” Dean says and he actually sounds a little choked up. “He told Graham he loved him and Graham just threw it back in his face. What if he died like that? Thinking that Graham hated him for loving him.”

“We don’t know that.”

“We don’t know he didn’t! Fuck…”

Aidan hesitates, he gets the impression there’s more going on here than just Richard and Graham and he’s almost certain that it pertains to them. He just doesn’t know how or why. He places a hand on Dean’s knee and squeezes. “Dean I... I’m not sure what to say here.”

Unsurprisingly, that is not the right thing to say. Dean shuts down visibly. He closes the journal and sets it on the arm rest. Then he nudges Aidan’s hand off his knee and pushes himself out of the seat, muttering a quick _forget it_ as he retreats upstairs.

Alone, Aidan glowers at the journal in accusation. He’s not sure what happened, but he’s pretty sure it’s McTavish’s fault.

 

* * *

 

_“I don’t even know who I am anymore,” Dean told him. “I don’t think I like myself.”_

_They’d met in a coffee shop, it was neutral grounds with the crowds bustling around them and the sound of the baristas working in the background to fill the silences. Aidan was drinking a decaf because his hands hadn’t stopped shaking all day and Dean was drinking an Americano, black, two sugars. It was the first time Aidan had seen Dean in months; he looked tired and thin. That’s because of me, he thought to himself. The guilt hit him like a knife in the gut._

_“I like you.”_

_“Stop it,” Dean snapped, glaring at him. “I don’t like you either, not right now.” He sighed and ran a hand through his blond hair and he sipped his coffee. “Tell me, Aid. Was it worth it?”_

_“Not for a second,” Aidan said immediately. “It’s the biggest regret of my life.”_

_Dean sighed again. He looked so miserable. It didn’t suit his face, sadness, Dean’s face was made for quirky smiles and laughing at dumb jokes, not this. “I guess I should tell you why I asked you to meet me,” he said. “Christ knows you’ve been waiting long enough.”_

_Months, Aidan thought, he’d been waiting months. Dean had told him he’d needed space, so Aidan had given him space. But not a day had gone by that he hadn’t thought of Dean, hadn’t stared desperately at his phone, his fingers itching to dial Dean’s number._

_“I’m so angry at you,” Dean said, his fingers clenching into fists on the table. “God I’m just so… angry! When I think about it I just… fuck.”_

_Aidan’s fingers twitched. He wanted so much just to reach across the table and take Dean’s hands into his but he knew that wasn’t the right thing to do, not right now._

_“I’m sorry.”_

_“I know you are. I believe you when you say you never meant to. But the fact is you did. We can’t change that.”_

_“No,” Aidan agreed, feeling sick._

_“But I’m not an idiot. I know these things don’t happen for no reason. If I’m going to… I’m going to have to be an adult and accept my part in this, you know?”_

_“It’s not your fault. None of it was your fault.”_

_Dean didn’t answer. He pressed his lips together and picked nervously at his thumbnail. “I called you because I don’t want it to be over. I’m angry with you but I’ve missed you and I want to try and move on from this. If you want to.”_

_“I want to,” Aidan said. “God I want to, it’s all I want. I love you.”_

_Dean frowned then, he wasn’t ready to hear those words and he shook his head and drew his hands away._

_“There’s some things I need you to agree to first,” he said._

_“Anything.”_

_“I don’t want to know who it was. I don’t want to know her name; I don’t want to know if I ever knew her. It’s bad enough thinking about her I don’t want her fucking face in my head, ok?”_

_“Ok.”_

_“And we have to be honest with each other. We have to try and learn to talk to each other.”_

_Aidan nodded his head, he couldn’t agree more. “ What else?”_

_Dean finished his coffee before answering and for the first time he looked nervous instead of just angry. “I want us to move,” he said. “Away from here.”_

_He hadn’t said it, but Aidan was pretty sure that when he said here, what he really meant was her._

 

* * *

 

The day Dean decides to go down to the old quarry, Aidan realises that it was inevitable. From the moment Dean had found that journal, it wasn’t a question of whether or not they were going to go, it was a question of when.

They make cheese and pickle sandwiches which they wrap in tinfoil and put in a backpack along with bottled water, bananas, and mint cake. Then, kitted in their coats and their boots, they set off.

They walk in near silence for a long time, stopping only when one of them points out a particularly impressive view or hear the rustling of an animal in the undergrowth. Walking down a quiet country road they find a badger, out unusually early and snuffling through the bracken of a ditch. They stop to watch it while it roots around looking for whatever it is that badgers eat ( _berries_ says Dean, _no_ , says Aidan _, slugs I think. Slugs and worms_ ). The badger digs through the soil and weeds with its blunt black nose, either completely oblivious to, or totally uncaring of their presence. Only once it bumbles back into the undergrowth do the two of them continue onwards, crossing the hills that rise up from the Loch Leven and passing by endless stretches of purple heather. It really is beautiful in a bleak and lonely kind of way.

They linger by the shores of the loch for a long while, skipping stones over the still water. At one point Aidan threatens to throw Dean in and Dean squawks and shoves him and the both of them end up ankle deep in the water anyway.

While they wait for their socks to dry, they lie back on the grassy banks and eat the sandwiches they’d packed. Dean splits a Kendall mint cake in two and offers half to Aidan, then he gazes out over the loch as he nibbles at his own half.

“You could just disappear here and no one would ever find you,” he says, apparently in one of his more pensive, melancholy moods. Aidan supposes it has something to do with the Wuthering Heights surroundings, all the heather and the rocks and the wide grey skies.

Above them, a bird of prey glides through the air, stopping to hover over particular spots for as long as a few minutes before gliding on. Aidan follows it with his eyes, chewing idly on a square of mint cake.

“Kestrel,” Dean tells him, also watching the bird.

 “Learnt that from Armitage, did you?” Aidan grins. “And I thought you were just reading for his private life.”

Dean barely glances at Aidan. The kestrel dives then, folding her wings into herself. She disappears into the heather, then rises again, clutching a small vole in her talons. She flies off with a flap of her wings, clutching her unfortunate prize.

Dean climbs to his feet and walks over to where their socks are drying against a rock. He picks one up, testing it, and deeming it dry enough, tosses Aidan his pair. “We’re not far from the quarry now,” he says as he sits on a rock and starts pulling his own socks on.

 Aidan sucks in a breath; the air feels especially cold with the taste of mint on his tongue. “You don’t think it’s a little morbid do you?”

Dean shrugs. “Maybe,” he says. “Does it matter?”

Aidan squints out over the loch with his hands on his hips, stretching stiffness out of his back. Out on the far side of the loch there’s a small stone cabin with smoke streaming up from the chimney.

“I guess not,” Aidan says.

 

* * *

 

It doesn’t take them long to reach the quarry from the loch. An hour at least. But Aidan can’t help but think about the journey they will have to get home.

The quarry is little more than a giant hole cut into the side of a cliff that horse shoes inwards. Come to it on a dark enough night and you’d find yourself stepping right over the edge without even knowing it. There’s a path that leads down, a narrow series of switchbacks that have crumbled and thinned with time. A chain is roped over the path with a red and white warning sign that reads DANGER. NO ENTRY.

Dean steps over the chain and looks back at Aidan expectantly.

“Not so sure this is a good idea,” Aidan says.

“It’ll be fine,” says Dean. “But if you really don’t want to come you can wait here, I won’t be long.”

There’s a voice inside Aidan’s head telling him to stay and wait. Instead, he follows Dean over the chain. Dean starts down the narrow switchbacks, one hand trailing the jagged edges of the slate wall. Aidan follows.

As they walk, Aidan imagines that he can see Armitage making that same descent. He has no idea what Armitage looked like; he doesn’t know the colour of his hair or his eyes, how tall he may have been or how he carried himself… But as they carefully pick their way to the bottom of the quarry, Aidan imagines that there is a third member of their party. A ghostly presence.

He wonders if it had been dark when Armitage fell. Whether it had just been a careless misstep that had caused him to trip over the edge. And then there are the more morbid thoughts. Whether he had died immediately or if he had lived long enough to feel hurt and alone, frightened with the knowledge that there would be no one coming to help him. Or perhaps he had thought that there would be; perhaps he had died hoping that he would be found.

“I wonder if he’d been scared,” Dean says quietly and Aidan realises Dean’s thoughts had been much the same as his.

“I would have been if it was me.”

They’re at the bottom now and Dean’s staring up at quarry edge. You can barely see the sky for the grey slate down here. It’s cold and filled with shadows. There are large puddles from bad drainage, in the centre of the quarry there’s a pool of water so large it’s like an artificial lake.

Dean toes at a loose shard of chalky slate, kicking it so it skitters away, the sound echoing off the rock.

“Why did you do it?” The question is so quiet that for a second Aidan’s unsure whether he even heard it or just imagined it.

“Come again?”

Dean looks at him then with dull, weary eyes. “Why did you do it? Sleep with her, I mean. Why?”

“I wish I could give you an answer you’d be happy with, I really do.”

“No answer’s going to make me happy. Just give me the truth.”

“She was there,” Aidan says. And it’s as simple, and complex, as that. “You and me… we weren’t good, you know? We weren’t really talking; it was like we were strangers coexisting. And she was… there.” He shrugs. He knows how pathetic it sounds. He doesn’t want to sound like he’s making excuses, but he wants so desperately for Dean to understand. Maybe if Dean understands then they can move on. “She listened to me; she made me feel good about myself. I know it was stupid, and a mistake. God it was such a huge, huge mistake, I know that now and I wish I could take it back for the world. But at the time… I wasn’t happy.”

“And she made you happy?”

“No,” Aidan shakes his head. “She didn’t. But she helped me forget.”

“I wasn’t happy either,” Dean says sharply. “But you didn’t see me running off to fuck other people.”

“You’re a better person than me.”

“Don’t do that,” Dean snaps. “That whole wounded sinner thing. You’re not a martyr here, Aidan; you’re not the fucking victim.”

“I know that.”

“Then stop it! Stop looking so fucking sad all the time.”

Aidan doesn’t know what to say, so he stays quiet.

“You know sometimes all I want to ask you is whether or not she was better than me.” Dean shakes his head, disgusted. “That’s why I can’t touch you, because in my head it just feels like you’ll be comparing the two of us and the thought of that makes me sick.”

“God, Dean, I wouldn’t, not for a second. She was—“ he stops himself, remembering their agreement. No details. “It wouldn’t be like that.”

“It would be like that for me though, that’s the problem.” Dean screws his eyes shut and he clenches his fists in frustration as he swears to himself. In any other moment it would be a comical gesture, one of sheer frustration like a child. Right now, it’s terrible. “I wish I could stop everything in my mind. I wish I could just forget.”

Aidan can’t take it anymore; he pulls Dean towards him and holds onto him, wrapping his arms tightly around him and crushing him to his chest. He hugs him like maybe if he holds on tight enough, he can seal the pieces back together. Dean goes rigid in his arms, like he wants to fight him, but then he seems to dissolve and he clings onto him.

“I wish you hadn’t been the one that hurt me,” Dean sobs.

“I’m sorry,” Aidan breathes, tears stinging his eyes. “I’m so sorry. I wish I could change it. God Dean, I wish I could take it back it’s all I want. I was an idiot. I fucked up so bad I’m so sorry darling.”

Standing there, in the cold shaded heart of the quarry, Aidan holds Dean as he cries. He realises that this is the first time that Dean has let Aidan see him cry since it happened.

At some point, it starts to rain.  Aidan only notices when it grows from icy droplets into a near deluge. Crying in the rain, the pathetic fallacy is not lost on him.

“We should get out of here,” Aidan says. The path is already looking treacherous. With no drainage, the water is sluicing down the switchbacks and the slate is slippery, like walking on ice.

Slowly, Dean detaches himself from Aidan. He nods, sniffing as he wipes his red rimmed eyes, though the tears are invisible now, mixed in with the rain.

Slowly, with agonising care, the two of them make their ascent up the switchbacks. The cold rain and wind chills them to the bone and the water rushing over the slate splashes up against their calves and soaks into their boots and socks.

It’s a risky climb, more than once one of them slips or stumbles and one time Dean gets so close to going over the edge that Aidan’s heart leaps into his throat every time he thinks about how close he could have come to losing him. If he hadn’t managed to grab his sleeve and pull him back… it doesn’t bare thinking about.

By the time they finally make it to the top, they are both soaking wet and absolutely miserable. They stand side by side at a safe distance from the quarry’s edge, shivering pitifully, heads ducked low and braced against the wind.

“What do we do now?” Aidan asks. Dean squints at him through the rain.

“Do you have your phone on you?”

Aidan shakes his head, he feels icy water trickling down the neckline of his jacket and he shivers. “There wouldn’t be signal. I chucked it anyway.”

“You what?”

“It’ll be in a field somewhere.”

Dean stares at him for a whole minute, utterly disbelieving. “Christ, Aid.” He shakes his head. “Why?”

“Prove a point to you?” Aidan shrugs. “I don’t know.” In hindsight, it was beginning to feel like quite a rash decision. “Besides who would we call anyway?”

“I don’t know, who do you normally call for shit like this? Mountain rescue? It doesn’t matter anyway.”

Aidan turns around, looking every which way for a sign. But it doesn’t matter where he looks; there is nothing but heather and hills surrounding them. They are completely isolated. “We’re just going to have to walk,” he sighs.

Not looking happy about it, but also equally as resigned, Dean nods his head and they set off together in the direction of the loch.

They walk for what feels like hours and each time Aidan lifts his head from where it’s stooped to try and peer through the gloomy weather, it feels like they’ve barely moved an inch. Surely it hadn’t taken them this long getting here? He begins to worry that perhaps they’ve taken a wrong turn and now they’re lost with no point of reference to guide him, doomed to wonder the heather for ever. He’s reluctant to admit as much to Dean.

Then, Dean stops. Aidan doesn’t realise this until he almost crashes into him and he looks up, frowning in annoyance. “What?”

“Do you see that?” Dean’s pointing out to a spot in the middle distance. Aidan narrows his eyes. He can just make out a small glowing light bobbing along the horizon. The light grows larger as it draws nearer to them and he realises that it’s headlights.

“Oh thank Christ.” Aidan throws a small prayer to the heavens. “We’re saved!”

The lights grow larger and brighter and soon they see the outline of a dark green jeep. Graham.

At this point, Aidan’s just so relieved to see anyone that he doesn’t even care.

The jeep draws up next to them and the driver’s window winds down revealing Graham’s frowning face.

“What’re you doing out here?” He demands, accusation in his tone.

“We went for a walk, got a little waylaid by the rain.”

Graham grunts. “The two of you are making a bad habit of it,” he says. He looks the both of them up and down, taking in their jeans and boots and looking wholly unimpressed. “You may as well get in,” he says.

Grateful, the two of them clamber inside. Dean takes the back seat which leaves Aidan to climb in up front next to Graham. Once they’re inside, Graham looks at Aidan, then he cranes his neck to inspect Dean.

“Were you down at the quarry?”

It’s a simple question, but with the history of the quarry resting so blatantly among them, it feels like a damning confession.

“Yes,” Dean says.

“It’s dangerous on the best of days never mind when it’s pelting with rain. What were you thinking?”

“We weren’t,” Dean says, staring back at Graham. “Sorry.”

Graham watches him for a moment longer, his expression unclear, then he turns back around in his seat and puts the jeep into gear. “I’ll take you back to my place; it’s closer than the Raptor House. You can dry off there ‘til the rain eases off then I’ll drop you back at yours.”

“Thank you,” Aidan says. Graham makes no acknowledgement that he’s heard him.

 


	5. Our clocks are ticking now so before our time is gone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah still not finished. Sorry about that. But almost!
> 
> Also warning for mild blood/injury. It's nothing major but involves unintentional scratches on arms.

 

Graham lives in the small cottage they saw overlooking the Loch. He lives alone save for two large hound dogs that greet the three of them with tail-wagging exuberance. The cabin smells of dog and smoke and the tartan throws on the seats are shaggy with fur.

A mounted deer head is nailed above a stone fireplace and there are other stuffed animals dotted around the room, their beady glass eyes staring blankly ahead. Aidan has no doubt that they were all killed by Graham. It’s a very rugged, masculine display, one Aidan’s uncertain he’s altogether comfortable with.

The fire in the hearth is glowing faintly behind a heavy metal grill and there’s a cold mug of tea on the table by the armchair. Aidan gets the impression that Graham had left the cabin in a hurry, perhaps when it first started to rain.

Graham crouches by the fireplace and feeds fresh logs onto the embers, leaving Dean and Aidan to shed their soaked layers by the door. The two hounds circle round them, sniffing them excitedly.

“Grasper, Keeper,” Graham orders, “down boys.” The two dogs give Dean and Aidan one last cursory sniff each and then they curl up on the rug in front of the fire, tails thumping heavily against the floor.

“Get yourselves warmed up,” Graham says, straightening. He walks into the kitchen and they hear the clink of china mugs. “I’m presuming you’ll be wanting tea?” he calls through.

Dean and Aidan look at each other. Dean shrugs and Aidan answers for both of them. “Sure, I guess?”

Dean crouches down by the fire between the hounds. Aidan looks around for a suitable spot to sit. Graham’s home is definitely catered to just one person; there are only really two seats in the entire room. The armchair is obviously Graham’s spot, which leaves a rickety looking wooden chair with a tattered patchwork blanket draped over it in the corner. Aidan opts for the wooden chair, perching on it somewhat stiffly.

Graham returns with three steaming mugs of tea balanced in his hands. He gives one each to Aidan and Dean and they wrap their fingers around the mugs, letting the warmth thaw out their fingers.

“So then,” Graham begins as he eases himself down into his armchair and sets his mug on the table next to him. “Do you boys have a death wish or are you really stupid enough to go off on your own like that?”

“We weren’t expecting it to rain,” Aidan tells him.

Graham only looks at him and considering where they live, Aidan can agree, it’s a foolish statement to make.

“How did you know where we were?” Dean asks, scratching one of the dogs behind the ear. It heaves out a woofing sigh, rolling closer to Dean.

“I spotted you lads fooling around down by the loch, figured I’d keep an eye out for you in case you did anything foolish. Good job I did, eh?”

Graham sits back in his armchair with his broad, calloused hands braced on the armrests and his large, muddy boots stretched out in front of him; he looks like a giant bear, dwarfing the rest of the room. “How’s the Raptor House coming along?” he asks.

“Great,” Aidan nods. “We lost a few shingles in the storm but Morag’s son helped with the repairs.”

“Ramsey? He’s a good lad. Used real Scottish slate I hope.”

“As far as I know.” Aidan sips his tea, letting it warm him from the inside out. Outside, the rain spatters against the windows and on the roof. The Loch is visible from the window, expansive and grey, a sea of ripples in the rain.

“Aye,” says Graham. “I was meaning to get that roof replaced for a while before you two moved in.”

Aidan blinks; he catches Dean glancing at him. “You’re the one that’s been looking after the cottage.”

“Aye.” Graham nods slowly. “Just the odd job here and there, when it calls for it.”

Aidan imagines Graham coming back to that empty cottage again and again over the years. Tending to the pipes, tuning the generator… each year the furnishings growing more and more dishevelled but the bare bones of the house- the essence- living on, nurtured by one solitary man. It paints a lonely and melancholy picture.

“Did you know Armitage had a journal?” Dean says suddenly and Aidan flinches. He watches as Graham’s expression turns guarded.

“Journal?”

“I found it hidden under the floorboards. I don’t know why it was hidden there but—“

“Have you read it?”

“Yes,” Dean admits softly.

Graham narrows his eyes; the quiet in the room is suddenly tense. One of the hounds lets out a low whimper, lifting their head to peer around. “You had no right,” Graham says and his voice is sharp and brittle. “No right to read it.”

“I’m sorry I was just curious—“

“Nosy, is what you were.” Graham shakes his head, rising to his feet.  “No right,” he repeats angrily.

“It was hidden away,” Dean says, he’s still crouched beside the fire. “Aren’t you curious about what was in it?”

“No!” Graham snaps and he takes a step closer. Frightened that he is about to lash out, Aidan jumps from his own seat and crosses the room to stand between Graham and Dean, holding his hands out.

“We’re sorry!” Aidan says. “We’re sorry, we didn’t mean anything by it…”

Behind him, Aidan hears Dean clambering to his feet and the hounds jump up, circling around them with worried barks.

“You should know that he loved you,” Dean says. “Did you love him?”

And if Graham wasn’t going to hit them before, he certainly was now. Aidan feels close to panicking, just what in the holy hell had gotten into Dean?

But Graham only stares at them. For a long while, he is frozen, mouth set, hidden behind his beard, hands fisted by his side. There’s something in his eyes… a flash of something sad and broken and he looks suddenly so much older. “You need to leave,” he says. “You’re not welcome here anymore. I’ll drive you but if you know what’s good for you. You won’t say another word to me.”

* * *

 

 

The drive to The Raptor House is blessedly short. Aidan sits up front again, if just to keep some distance between Dean and Graham. Both men are silent, Graham holds the wheel so tightly it’s a wonder it doesn’t buckle under his grip and Dean stares grimly out of the back window. Aidan feels lost, he feels like he’s missing out on something vital, like he drifted off and came back to find not only was he on a different page to the rest of the world, but they had skipped a chapter entirely.

When Graham pulls up outside the Raptor House, he keeps the engine running and the three of them sit in silence.

Finally, Graham clears his throat and shoots Aidan a brief glance. “Well, go on, get out.”

Aidan slides out of the Range Rover with Dean following behind. As Dean slams the back door and walks away, Aidan lingers, holding the passenger door open. “We’re sorry man,” he says. “Dean he… he didn’t mean anything by it. He’s just… we’re just going through some things right now.”

Graham only grunts, it is clear he’s not going to say any more. Hesitantly, Aidan slams the door and steps back, watching as Graham pulls away and drives off down the road.

“Next time don’t try and speak for me,” Dean snaps, walking up beside him.

Aidan spins to face him. “Just what the hell was that?” he demands.

“What?”

“All of that… what the hell were you thinking?”

Dean shrugs. He looks almost petulant, standing there, half soaked by the rain, his nose and cheeks ruddy from the cold. “I just wanted some answers,” he says.

“And you thought that was a good way of getting them?” Aidan drags his hand through his wet hair and stares up at the sky. “Jesus _Christ_ , Dean!”

“He’s a coward. He’s been hiding from it for so long. He thinks treating this cottage like some damn tomb is going to get him penance he’s wrong.”

Aidan stares at Dean for a long time and slowly, he begins to realise that there’s something else going on here. Dean is angry… he meant for that confrontation to happen. He’s angry at Graham… but Aidan has absolutely no idea why.

“What am I missing here?” he asks.

Dean glances at him and sniffs. “Nothing,” he mutters. “Just forget it, it doesn’t matter.” He starts for the house. “Are you coming?”

Aidan watches Dean’s back for a moment longer before sighing, he follows after him 

* * *

 

That night, as they lay in bed, Aidan finds he’s having trouble drifting off.

“Did you mean what you said back at the quarry?” he says into the dark. “About why we moved out here?”

Dean is quiet for so long that Aidan thinks he’s asleep. Then Dean rolls over and though Aidan can’t see him, he knows Dean is facing him. “No,” he says finally. “I was angry. But we moved out here to try and save us, that part was true.”

“Do you feel like you’ve sacrificed things for us?”

“Don’t you?”

Aidan doesn’t answer; they both know it’s true. “Do you think it’s worth it?” he asks.

The bedding shifts and Aidan feels Dean’s fingers tracing the outline of his shoulder, brushing down his neck and over his cheek. A feather light, almost hesitant touch. “I want it to be. God Aidan, I’m just so tired all the time.”

Dean’s crying again, Aidan can hear it in his breathing and he can feel it in the way Dean’s fingers shake over his skin.

“You can talk to me.”

“But that’s just it, I can’t.” Dean breathes in deeply, he gives a wet sniff. “You always used to be the person that I would turn to about anything. But if I talk to you about the things that I’m thinking… these feelings going through me. They’re going to hurt you.”

“They won’t,” Aidan says.

“They would. I hurt you today in the quarry with what I said, didn’t I?”

“I deserved it.”

“No you didn’t!” Dean snaps and his fingers close into a fist in Aidan’s hair before letting go again. “God Aidan. This is what I mean, this… I don’t know. This prostrating yourself. I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to keep dragging you through the coals; I don’t want to make you sorry for being with me. But I can’t stop these horrible feelings… I can’t stop myself from getting angry at you and I hate myself for it. I just…” Dean trails off into silence. He draws his hand away from Aidan but Aidan grabs it before Dean can retreat fully and he holds it between them, interlacing their fingers as they stare blindly at each other in the dark.

“You just what?” he coaxes softly.

“I miss you. I’m so fucking lonely and I want to stop being so angry and I miss you so much.”

Aidan misses Dean too. He misses him like he’s an aching hole that’s been carved out and hollowed and filled with clear resin.

“I’m right here, Dean,” he says, kissing each one of Dean’s knuckles. “I’m tough, I’ll take whatever you can throw at me and I’ll still be here. Whatever it takes to make this better, I’m right here, darling. I’m not going anywhere.”

Dean gives a choked laugh, he squeezes Aidan’s hand. “I know you’re not,” he says sorrowfully. “I’m sorry.”

“What for? You’ve got nothing to be sorry about.”

Dean is quiet and the seconds tick by and Aidan presses Dean’s knuckles against his lips, no longer kissing them but just letting them rest there.

“It doesn’t matter,” Dean says. “We should sleep.”

Aidan nods his agreement, but he doesn’t let go of Dean’s hand and Dean doesn’t pull it away. They fall asleep like that, clinging on even in their dreams.

* * *

 

One morning, Dean comes home with blood on his t-shirt and something wrapped up in his jacket and clutched to his chest. Aidan had been sitting in his usual spot on the doorstep drinking his coffee when he sees Dean struggling to clamber over the stile.

He sets his coffee down, hurrying over to Dean.

“What is that what the hell happened?” He asks, looking in horror at all of the blood. There are scratches all along Dean’s hands and arms. He looks like he lost a fight with a box of razors.

“Do we still have any boxes in storage?” Dean brushes by Aidan, carrying whatever it is into the house and to the kitchen.

“I think so yeah, why what have you got?”

“Prick some holes into one and bring it down for me?”

Dean sets whatever it is down on the kitchen counter still wrapped in his coat. Aidan can’t see what it is but he can see Dean’s coat tremble and jerk so he knows it’s alive. Without another word he tears upstairs and into his study. All of the boxes they have yet to unpack have been stacked in a corner saved for later ‘rainy days’. Aidan pulls the topmost one down, tears off the masking tape and upends it in the middle of the floor spilling books and papers everywhere. He snatches a ballpoint pen from his desk and stabs a few air holes around the edges, and then he bounds down the stairs and back into the kitchen.

Dean lifts the bundle up and sets it down gently in the centre of the box, untangling the jacket just a little. Then he closes the flaps and presses his hand against them. Aidan retrieves a roll of Sellotape from the kitchen draw and they fasten the flaps down. Once they’re finished, Aidan turns to Dean, looking pointedly at the scratches and the blood that’s streaking Dean’s arms a ghastly mottling of red.

“You mind telling me what the fuck happened?”

“It’s one of the kestrels,” Dean says. He experimentally curls one of his hands into a fist and winces, hissing. “It’d been caught in a snare.”

“And how’d your arms get sliced up like that?”

“The snare had gotten tangled in barbed wire,” Dean explains. “The kestrel got scratched up too it’s not just my blood.” Dean frowns. “Do you know where my phone is? We’ve got to google bird rescue or something.”

“What we’ve got to do is get you to a hospital, Jesus Dean!” Aidan grabs onto one of Dean’s arms, above the elbow, where he’s free of scratches and stares closely at the wounds. They’re jagged and torn; some of them look like they might even need stitches.

Dean pulls his arm free and searches the cabinets for his phone. He find it tucked away beside the bread bin.

Aidan follows him, damp towel in hand and he dabs at the blood as Dean scrolls through his phone.

“Jesus, Aid!” Dean flinches when Aidan wipes over a particularly nasty looking gash.

“I don’t care what you say, we’re going to a hospital, we’re not coming all the way to Scotland just to have you die of fucking tetanus.”

“I’ve had my shots it’s fine,” Dean dismisses, nose buried in his phone. “Besides the closest hospital’s like three hours away, we’ll go to the doctor in town.” He holds his phone out to show Aidan. “Look here’s a number we can call; they can tell us where the closest bird rescue is.”

The closest place, as it turns out, is in town. They’re recommended to go down to the Post Office where there’s a list of names and numbers recorded. With the area being so remote, there’s a few licenced in the area. It’s doubly convenient considering the Post Office is right next door to the Doctor’s Surgery. They’re both housed in the same building in fact.

So Dean and Aidan take a trip into town. Dean rides with the box cradled in his lap and hand towels wrapped and knotted around his forearms. When they get there, Dean refuses to leave the box in the car and Aidan refuses to allow Dean to put off having his wounds tended to, so after a brief, but fierce exchange of words, Dean heads grudgingly for the surgery whilst Aidan carries the box into the Post Office.

The Post Office is one of those buildings that serves multiple purposes for the village, including but not limited to being a children’s sweet shop and video rental shop. It’s a small building with shelves crammed with old VHS boxes dating no later than the early naughties (the town is at least ten years behind and has yet to cross over to DVDs), and glass jars of liquorice allsorts, rubharb and custards, and strawberry bon bons.

It’s run by the same red faced woman who’d served cakes at the Shinty match and she positively beams when she spots Aidan. The nametag on her blouse reads _Penny._

“How are you pet have you got a package you want delivering?” Penny asks as Aidan sets the box down carefully on the counter. There’s a plate of her sliced chery cake next to the cash register wrapped in cellophane.

“A bird actually. Kestrel.” Aidan says. “You have a… bird rescue directory thing?”

“We do, we do,” Penny nods sagely. “Used to have a lot of bird types here back in the day… lots of trained specialists but they’re dwindling. In fact we’ve lost all but one of them now I think. Mr. McTavish is the man you’re after.”

Stone cold dread washes over Aidan. Of course it would be Graham. _Of course._

“Can I just leave the bird here and he can come pick it up?” Aidan asks, hoping that if he looks pleading enough it’ll win her over. Penny tuts and coos and smiles kindly as she shakes her head no.

“I wish you could pet but a post office is no place for wild birds. But you’re in luck, Graham comes in most mornings for a chat and a slice of cake. In fact…” she cranes her head to look over Aidan’s shoulder to the door and Aidan sighs and hangs his head. Penny looks back to him, smiling all the wider. “That’s him here right now!” She holds up a hand and wriggles her fingers. Aidan hears the heavy footfalls of Graham approaching. “Graham? Graham, this wee lad was just here looking for you. He says he has a bird for you.”

“Has he now?” Graham booms and Aidan winces.

“I believe you know him,” Penny says. “He’s one of those nice young men that bought up the old Raptor House.”

Graham comes to stand next to Aidan at the counter and Aidan looks up at him, trying not to look too sheepish when he smiles.

“Aye I know him,” Graham says, staring back at Aidan. Graham’s dressed in his usual green hunting jacket with mud caked boots and a flat cap pulled over his bald head. “You’ve got a bird then?” Graham turns to the box on the counter.

“A kestrel,” Aidan tells him. “Dean found it snared this morning and tangled in barbed wire. He got cut up pretty bad rescuing it.”

“He rescued it with his bare hands?” Graham frowns. “That was a damn fool thing to do.”

“He didn’t have much choice,” Aidan narrows his eyes, the urge to defend Dean in his absence rising with a flare of self-righteous anger. “If you ask me it was pretty selfless of him.”

“And he got himself hurt doing it, didn’t he? Could’ve risking hurting the bird worse too.”

“Ah Graham, don’t be like that, it’s done now isn’t it? The lad meant well,” Penny unwraps the cellophane from the plate of cherry slices and pushes them across the counter next to the box. “Now stop your bickering and take a cake on the house, the both of you.”

“Are you going to take the bird then?”

“Aye I will.” Graham hefts the box under his arm. He picks up a slice of cake and nods at Penny then he starts back for the door. Aidan watches him go, then when he hears the sound of Graham’s range rover starting up, he turns back to Penny, eyebrows raised in exasperation.

“Is he for real?”

“What do you mean, pet?” Penny blinks like she had not just been privy to their exchange. She nudges the plate closer to Aidan. “Take an extra slice for your friend would you? And wish him my best.”

* * *

 

 

None of Dean’s scratches need stitches in the end, but his forearms and palms are wrapped with thick white gauze and he’s prescribed a bottle of painkillers with clear instructions to change the bandages each day and check carefully for signs of infection.

Dean seems largely nonplussed when Aidan tells him just who had taken the bird, _but then_ , he supposes aloud, _it makes sense considering_. Aidan isn't too certain what exactly it considers.

Since they’re already in town, they decide to stop off at the pub for lunch. The kitchen’s open so the both of them have hot pie and potatoes, but Dean is quiet and barely touches any of his, the painkillers having started to kick in. It isn’t long before he’s complaining that he’s tired and asking if they could go home.

“Is Dean alright?” Adam asks quietly when Aidan’s settling the bill.

“He’s just tired,” Aidan says. “Busy morning.”

Dean dozes for most of the drive and when they arrive back at the cottage, he heads straight upstairs muttering something about just going for a quick lie down.

Three hours later, Dean’s still not come down and Aidan heads upstairs with a couple mugs of tea in hand. He finds Dean curled up in a ball under the covers, fast asleep. Aidan sets the mugs down on the nightstand, kicks off his shoes and jeans and crawls onto the bed, coaxing one corner of the covers away from Dean. Dean moans and grumbles sleepily, but when Aidan curls up behind him, wrapping his arms around Dean’s waist, Dean rolls over and slides a bandaged arm around Aidan’s ribs, nuzzling his face into Aidan’s neck. He wedges one leg between Aidan’s thighs and then sighs contentedly, already beginning to drift off back to sleep again.

“How’re the scratches?” Aidan whispers, pressing a kiss to Dean’s temple. Dean hums and mutters something that may have been ‘itchy’ and nuzzles further into Aidan’s neck.

“My brave bird saviour.” Aidan presses another kiss to the top of Dean’s head, breathing in the scent of shampoo in his sleep ruffled hair.

Dean shushes him and tightens his arm a fraction around Aidan’s ribs. Aidan falls quiet, happy to just hold Dean when he’s soft and pliant. They’re warm under the covers, possibly too warm, Dean’s radiating heat and their limbs are growing tacky where they’re touching, but Aidan doesn’t mind it.

“Are you happy?” Dean asks, voice muffled.

“Hmm?”

“Are you happy?”

“Yes.” Aidan tightens his hold on Dean “Very happy.”

“Good.” Dean nods. “You’d tell me if you weren’t, right? If you were going to do something?”

“Like what?” Aidan cranes his neck to try and look at Dean but Dean only buries his face further into Aidan’s neck and gives Aidan’s ribs another squeeze. “What would I do?”

“Nothing, never mind. I’m glad that you’re happy.”

“Are you happy?”

“Yes,” Dean sighs dreamily. “Sure. I’d tell you too.”

“Tell me what? Dean what’re we talking about here?”

But Dean just shushes him again and burrows deeper into the covers and into Aidan and mumbles, “No more talking, sleep time now.”


End file.
